Chapter 167: Surrender

At the same time, in the 6th Division's defense sector east of Kundian City.

Division Commander Ha Lide held a telescope, observing the Dutch camp ahead. It was a standard colonial camp: wooden fences, a watchtower, several rows of barracks, and a few vintage trucks parked on the open ground in the middle. A white flag had already been hoisted at the gate, but people were still moving inside.

"Have we sent anyone to make contact?" he asked the Chief of Staff.

"We dispatched a platoon with a translator." The Chief of Staff was a forty‑year‑old Arab officer who had previously served in the Ottoman army. "The other side says they are willing to surrender but demand guarantees for personal safety and permission to retain personal belongings."

"Agreed." Ha Lide set down the telescope, "but all weapons must be handed over. Moreover, all officers are to be detained separately, while the soldiers can be managed collectively."

"Understood."

The order was passed down. A company's soldiers formed a skirmish line and slowly approached the camp. The gate opened, and a group of Dutch soldiers stepped out, piling their weapons at the entrance. Most were very young, some still bearing a childish look, now filled with fear and bewilderment.

Ha Lide watched the scene, feeling a surge of mixed emotions.

Three months earlier, he had been in an Omani tribe, negotiating oil extraction rights with Yingguo representatives. At that time he was a merchant, an advisor to a chief, and never imagined he would don a uniform, travel thousands of miles to the South Ocean, and accept the surrender of a European army.

Fate truly is strange.

"Division Commander, we captured an officer." A company commander brought a Dutch lieutenant forward, "He says he wants to see the supreme commander."

Ha Lide sized up the prisoner. About thirty years old, blond hair, blue eyes, his uniform still fairly tidy, but his shoulder insignia had been torn off— a sign of surrender.

"Do you speak English?" Ha Lide asked in English.

"Yes." The Dutch officer straightened his back, trying to preserve dignity, "I am Lieutenant William Fan De Sande, Deputy Battalion Commander of the 3rd Battalion, Royal East India Army. I request to be treated according to the Geneva Convention, along with my subordinates."

"Agreed." Ha Lide nodded, "As long as you cooperate, we will not mistreat prisoners. But now, I have a few questions."

"Please ask."

"How many defending troops remain in the city? Where are they deployed?"

Fan De Sande hesitated. By a soldier's honor, he should not reveal intelligence. Yet looking around—hundreds of Arab soldiers stared hungrily, and farther away, heavy mortars had already been set up.

"Approximately… fifteen hundred men." he finally said, "Mainly stationed at the Governor's Office, the Police Station, and the Telegraph Office. But morale is low; many wish to surrender, only the officers are pressing them."

"Where is the Governor?"

"He fled by boat yesterday afternoon, heading to Batavia." Fan De Sande gave a wry smile, "Leaving us as scapegoats."

Ha Lide noted the information, then asked an unexpected question: "How long have you been in Borneo?"

The officer froze for a moment: "I… I am third‑generation. My grandfather arrived in 1880, my father was born here, and I was also born here."

"So you consider this your home?"

"Yes." Fan De Sande's eyes dimmed, "But now… it seems the home is about to be lost."

Ha Lide was silent for a few seconds.

"Lieutenant, when your grandfather arrived, whose home was this?"

The question was like a knife, piercing the prisoner's forced composure.

Fan De Sande opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"It was your grandfather who seized this home from others," Ha Lide answered for him, "Now the original owner's descendants have come back to claim it. That's all."

He waved his hand: "Take him away. Treat him as a prisoner of war, do not abuse."

The soldiers escorted the Dutch officer away.

Ha Lide turned and looked toward the camp. The 6th Division's soldiers were inventorying weapons, registering prisoners, and taking over facilities. Everything proceeded orderly, demonstrating excellent training.

But he noticed that some soldiers wore puzzled expressions.

"Ali." he called the Guard Company Commander, "Go around the companies, listen to what the soldiers are saying. Especially… about why we are fighting here."

"Yes, Division Commander."

Ali was a twenty‑five‑year‑old youngster, clever and quick‑witted. Half an hour later, he returned, his complexion a little odd.

"How did it go?" Ha Lide asked.

"Everyone… has some discussion," Ali weighed his words, "Mainly they feel this place is too unfamiliar. The climate, vegetation, people—all completely different from our homeland. Some soldiers ask: we traveled so far to help the Chinese seize territory, is it worth it?"

"What did you answer?"

"I said, it is an order; a soldier's duty is to obey."

Ha Lide shook his head: "That answer isn't enough. Come with me."

He led Ali to the camp's parade ground. There, several hundred soldiers of the 6th Division were resting, sitting in groups of three to five. Upon seeing the Division Commander approach, they all stood up.

"At ease." Ha Lide gestured, leapt onto a wooden crate so everyone could see him.

"Brothers, I know what you're thinking." He got straight to the point, "I'm pondering the same thing: why are we here? This humid, hot jungle, these unfamiliar faces, these people who don't speak our language… what do they have to do with us?"

The soldiers fell silent, watching him.

"Let me tell you a story," Ha Lide said, "Last year, during the anti‑bandit campaign in Oman Bay, remember? We lost seventeen brothers. Among them was a machine‑gunner named Kaximu, only nineteen years old."

Many nodded. Kaximu was a likable youngster, skilled with his gun, and loved to sing.

"Where was Kaximu from?" Ha Lide asked.

"From Neizhi," someone replied.

"Right, a Northern Yind from Neizhi. After that sacrifice, who paid his family's compensation?"

"The State."

"Who paid his younger brother's and sister's school fees?"

"The State."

"Who guaranteed that his parents would be cared for in old age?"

"The State."

A series of questions and answers, and the soldiers gradually understood something.

"For whom did Kaximu die?" Ha Lide asked, "For the Chinese? For the Arabs? No, he died for Lanfang. Because when he put on this uniform, he swore allegiance not to a particular ethnicity, but to this nation."

He jumped down from the crate and moved into the soldiers' midst:

"Today, we fight here not to seize territory for the Chinese, but to reclaim Lanfang's homeland. If today we say: this isn't our land, we won't help, then tomorrow, when someone attacks our homeland, the Chinese brothers of the 1st Division and 2nd Division could also say: that isn't our land, we won't help."

He stopped his steps, looking at the young faces around him:

"What is a nation? A nation is a promise: you protect me, I protect you. No distinction of ethnicity, no distinction of region. The blood we shed in Borneo will later be exchanged for the blood others will shed for us on the Arabian Peninsula. You must understand this principle."

A young soldier raised his hand: "Commander, I understand. But… the Chinese here, will they treat us as their own?"

"Good question," Khalid said, "Come, I'll take you to see the answer."

He led dozens of soldiers out of the barracks and onto a nearby street.

Kun Dian's Chinese residents began tentatively stepping out of their homes. When they saw the Arab soldiers, they were initially surprised and wary—after all, foreigners in uniform always frighten people.

But soon, they realized these soldiers were different.

One Arab soldier was helping an elderly woman carry water. Another was bandaging an injured civilian— the medic hadn't arrived yet, but he had basic first‑aid training. Yet another was gesturing, trying to tell a group of children not to approach the dangerous area.